The Jane and Loki Drabbles
by audreyii-fic
Summary: Wherein Audrey takes Lokane prompts and writes very short, questionably edited, likely ridiculous fics. Lemons and steampunk and everything inbetween. Ratings and tags subject to change.
1. Ordinary Love (moved)

**symbollalagy asked: Au where Loki is banished, not Thor. Odin takes his power, but not his impressive intellect. Maybe he learns Mifgardian science? ?**

* * *

_Wherein Loki gets laid, Thor plays wingman, and Darcy can't find her iPod. (Romance-ish/Humor. PG-13.) _

_Not exactly the prompt, and not as smutty as intended, and it sort of got away from me, but… isn't that the way of things?_

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_**The Banished!Odinsons drabbles now have their own home in the fic Ordinary Love.**_


	2. Wherein Jane is controlled by hormones

**jgreye asked: For a Lokane smut prompt, I seriously saw this in a dream the other night. Loki and Jane, surrounded by darkness so you can't see their surroundings very well, it could be her trailer, or it could be his cell in TDW, we don't know. But as things start to get heated, he pulls her up into a sitting position ready to thrust inside, then she's gone. He's back in his cell, and incredibly pissed. She's waiting for that moment to feel him inside her, then she opens her eyes and he's gone.**

* * *

_Wherein Jane is at the mercy of her hormones and Loki can't concentrate. (PWP. Hard R or soft NC-17.)_

* * *

Jane's having _the dream._ Again.

She understands why it happens. She does. She's an astrophysicist, not a psychiatrist, but it doesn't take Freud to get that wet dreams are inevitable when one's sole romantic entanglement is with one's hand-held showerhead. She's an adult woman who hasn't gotten laid in over three years. And estrogen doesn't care about vanished gods and broken hearts.

If _the dream_ were only more satisfying, she might even welcome it.

Long, delicate fingers splay across her bare back, tracing tickling patterns along each dip and knot of her spine.

She's never gotten a good look at him — her hormone-crazed subconscious apparently doesn't feel the need for little details like faces, or voices, or locations — but his body she's become _intimately_ familiar with. He's not slender, but he's not broad, either. Smooth hair, corded muscles, surprisingly soft skin. He's a little cold to the touch, too, like the cool side of a pillow on a summer night.

Except for his mouth. His mouth is hotter than hell.

That mouth is at work on her neck now, sharp teeth scraping against her collarbone. Jane moans — she likes that, and he knows it. (Of course he knows what she likes. He's in her head.) Sometimes when she wakes up she expects to see herself covered in hickeys as though she's sneaking home from prom.

One of his clever hands snakes down to grab her ass. Groping is a lost art, but this man seems determined to bring it back into fashion.

He's wearing… _something_, she can't tell what, but he's dressed, and he shouldn't be. Her pajamas had vanished in the first few minutes, as usual. "Off," she murmurs, tugging at his collar. It feels both rough and leathery, like a motorcycle jacket covered in burlap. No one ever said Jane Foster's subconscious understood fashion.

The man complies. His clothes disappear. (That's the convenience of a good dream — no laundry to do after.) Then his mouth is plundering hers with the kind of skill that only exists in bodice-ripping romance novels, one hand knotted in her hair and the other working its way between her thighs.

_Let me have you_, he whispers wordlessly, communicating his desires even though he doesn't make a sound. (No, she doesn't know how. He just does. Dreams are like that.) Those cool fingers dip into her heat, stroking slow and pressing firm. _Show me your secrets. Let me have all of you, Jane Foster._

Hmph. He says stuff like that every time. "You're _my_ fantasy," she snaps at him. (Kind of snaps. It's more of a squeak.) "_I_ should get to have _you_."

And she shoves at his shoulders, pushing him onto his back.

She can feel his surprise in the way his breathing hitches. Which is weird — why should he be surprised? Yeah, this isn't the way their encounters usually go, but he's just a figment of her imagination. He should be able to keep up.

Well, _up_ isn't a problem in at least one way. Jane lowers her weight onto him, pleased all out of sorts by the way he groans at the contact; his waist fits very nicely between her legs. She grinds her hips experimentally.

He sits up so fast she nearly falls off the bed.

_Enough. Enough._ He grabs for her, jerks her down onto his lap roughly. His voice-that-isn't-a-voice is strained with— what? Lust? Exertion? _Concentrate. Focus for me. Show me what you are._

She feels him, hard and hot where she is slick and ready, and, and, _and_—

—and she's staring at the ceiling of her apartment, aching, sticky, and totally alone.

She woke up before the good part.

Like always.

God, she _hates_ this stupid dream.

"For a fantasy man, you sure are a tease," she grumbles, kicking the covers back viciously and cursing the entire world — plus a few other worlds out there, just for good measure.

Time for another date with the showerhead.

* * *

When he jolts back to reality, it takes all of Loki's considerable willpower not to destroy every inch of his cell until nothing remains but shredded paper and splinters.

Influencing a mortal's dreams is difficult. Influencing a mortal's dreams across realms is nigh-on impossible. Influencing a mortal's dreams across realms from within the magic dampening dungeons of Asgard… well, that's certainly never been done. Not until now.

If he could just remain focused long enough to peel apart the layers of Thor's woman and discover what it is about her that makes her so valuable. If he could concentrate on _her_ seduction without losing control and breaking the connection by accident. If she would stop _distracting_ him.

Well. There's always their next encounter.

It's not like he has anything better to do.


	3. Wherein Jane experiences culture shock

**iamartemisday said: AU prompt: Loki is a Joutunn prince and Jane is his mortal concubine.**

* * *

_Wherein Jane experiences culture shock. (**Severe** dub-con PWP AU. NC-17.)  
_

* * *

_ Once upon a time, a mortal woman lived in the world of Midgard. Midgard, meaningless Midgard, backward Midgard, Midgard which sat so strategically planted between realms and planets that no race of creatures dare leave it be for more than a decade or two at a stretch. Midgard, where gods and demons of all stripes walked freely and took what they wished without regard for the primitive inhabitants._

_Once upon a time, a mortal woman came to the world of Asgard. A woman of science — that way of thinking which denied magic, that spoke of universal constants even the gods must obey, that concept which reared its ugly head every century or so until Galileo was burned and Newton was hung and Einstein was locked away to scream his blasphemy at padded walls — who was looked upon kindly by the Prince of the Aesir. A woman who, resistant to pomegranates and puzzle boxes, fell prey to the lure of the stars._

_Once upon a time, a mortal woman attended a feast in the halls of Odin. An anniversary feat, thrown to commemorate the end of a war which all knew would begin again as soon as a legitimate opportunity presented itself, bringing together two peoples happy to celebrate the peace whilst simultaneously preparing for the next battle. The mead flowed and the food was plentiful, and the mortal woman drank and ate and enjoyed the attentions of one prince without realizing she had drawn the eye of another._

_Once upon a time, a mortal woman learned of the indifference of the gods._

Jane Foster spends the wait picking at the silk sheets and cursing her own stupidity.

She knew what became of people who drew the attention of gods (_aliens_, _not gods, just other people from other planets who think they get to rule us because they freaked out our ancestors with some ice and lightning_). Dusty tomes and tabloids alike were littered with cautionary tales about reaching too high.

Julius Caesar. Anne Boleyn. Marilyn Monroe. For every William Shakespeare there were twenty Lindsay Lohans.

If someone from another world calls you worthy and offers to blow your mind, you _walk the other way_.

But Thor had been nothing but kind. And the science of the Bifrost had been beyond her wildest dreams. And Jane had forgotten everything she'd ever learned about accepting the gifts of gods who havn't made you any promises.

Still, when the All-Father had promised King Laufey his choice of gifts from the great halls of Asgard (a traditional offer made in courtesy, and in the same tradition meant to be courteously refused), not even the most jaded Asgardians could have guessed Laufey's son would point at _her_.

A crack of furious thunder sounds somewhere distant in the palace. That's been going on for awhile.

Jane supposes she should feel touched that Thor is so indignant on her behalf, but it doesn't matter. Odin won't insult the Frost Giants by taking his "gift" back. In the eyes of the All-Father, what's one mortal's dignity against the safety of two realms? Less than nothing.

Lost in resentment, Jane nearly jumps out of her skin when the chamber doors open.

He strides into her bedroom like a panther, leather and armor as ice-blue as his skin and nearly indistinguishable, prowling as though he belongs there, as though this place belongs to him, as though _everything_ belongs to him. Red eyes flit over every surface, his face bored beneath etched markings—

—before turning the same look on her and glancing her over from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes (bare beneath her robe). His disinterested air doesn't change in the slightest.

Then he catches her expression. His lips, blue as the rest of him, twitch in what can only be described as the most exact definition of a _smirk_ ever known to man or god.

It makes her want to punch him in the nose. If she can reach that high. It would be a stretch, but she's willing to make the effort.

"Your name."

An involuntary shiver runs through her body. Stupid gods with their stupid perfect voices.

Stupid _rude_ perfect gods. "Was that a question?" Jane replies sarcastically. The Prince of Jotunheim raises an eyebrow, and she elaborates: "I know you do things differently around here, but on Earth, if you want to know someone's name, you _ask_."

His eyebrow is almost at his hairline now. The smirk grows into an indulgent, condescending smile. "Would you be so kind as to favor me with your title, my lady?"

He's mocking her, but it's not like she expected anything else. "Jane Foster."

"Jane Foster." Her name rolls off his tongue like molasses. "I am Loki of Jotunheim. You may have heard of me."

Of course she has. The history books are chock full of Loki's visits to Midgard, and nothing good ever comes of them. "Once or twice, I guess."

"Then further introduction is unnecessary. Undress yourself." When she doesn't move, Loki makes a small noise of impatience. "You know why you're here, Jane Foster, so don't insult us both by feigning ignorance. Do as I say."

Jane swallows.

And Loki waits.

The battle of wills is over shamefully quickly. After all, she never had a chance at winning.

_Meddle not in the affairs of the gods,_ she thinks to herself as her fingers fumble at the ties of her dressing gown. _Meddle not, meddle not, meddle not._ She is such an idiot, and now, if she's _lucky_, she'll go down in history as an object lesson in human folly. If she's not, she'll be forgotten. One more lost mortal. Another speck of dust in a war without end.

It's so depressing she wants to cry. "Why me?" she asks, shrugging off the robe to reveal the wispy gown underneath.

"I should think it obvious."

"You think wrong." Jane's hardly the only mortal in Asgard at the moment. She's not even the most attractive, objectively speaking. And who says the Prince of Jotunheim had to settle for a human? Odin had offered an open choice of gifts. Loki could have had Sif. Hell, Loki could have had _Frigga_. "What's so special about me?"

"Nothing," Loki says simply. He's tilted his head to the side, and his red eyes are near to glowing as Jane unbinds her hair. Or maybe it's just the candlelight. "Nothing at all, except that you belong to Thor."

Figures.

Jane's been traded like a basket of fruit by the people she almost-trusted and is about to be used to who knows what perverted ends by the chaotically unbalanced prince of a race of ice demons. So she's pretty nauseated when her first reaction is to be _insulted_ by the revelation that her only appeal is in the fact that Thor will be irritated by someone else touching his stuff. Five steps back for feminism, right there.

Still, it's a bargaining chip. "Thor loves me," she lies, raising her chin in something she hopes looks like arrogance. "He loves me, if you do this, he'll kill you."

Loki blinks at her for half a second—

—and then bursts into laughter. It lightens his expression, makes him look like a young man instead of an ageless god… well, as much as a blue-skinned alien can look like a man at all. "Your concern for my health is touching!"

"If Thor smashed your face in I wouldn't shed a tear."

"Few would, but you ought not waste your time anticipating it. My father left me to die on a rock when I was born, yet here I stand. I've quite the _inconvenient_ knack for survival, you see."

She doesn't know what to say to that.

"And besides, Jane Foster, you are not such a fool as to think Thor cares _so_ much for your honor," he says, still chuckling. "We have been acquainted in one form or another since we were children. I know him well. You are a trinket, and he will set you aside as soon as something new and shiny crosses his path — nevertheless, if I do not take a strike from Mjolnir for this outrage, I shall think even less of him than I already do. But I would happily trade a hundred blows to my body for a single blow to Odinson's ego." He smiles again, his teeth unnervingly white. "Do you understand now?"

Jane just stares at him. "You're disgusting."

"And you've stopped undressing. Continue."

"No." It's a little thing, and stupid at that, considering the ending to this pageant of theirs is more or less inevitable, but she'll be damned if she'll help him along. "If you want me naked, do it yourself." The _coward_ is implied.

A flicker of something crosses the prince's face, and his whole body stiffens. "You would not care for that," he says softly.

It's on the tip of Jane's tongue to say _I won't care for **any** of it_ — but then she catches the way his slender hand with its black nails flexes at his side, and she remembers all she's been told of the Jotunns. "You can't touch me," she breathes.

"_Can't_ is a strong word." All the smugness and humor is gone from that smirk now. "But whatever you may think of me, Jane Foster, I'd rather not have my mortals screaming in pain as their skin sears and freezes from their bones."

_That's_ an image to get a woman in the mood. "Then there's no point," she says, crossing her arms. (It makes her gown hike up closer to her waist, exposing more thigh, but what different does it make now?) "You can't do anything, so get out of my room."

"And report to Odin what an offensive gift he has bestowed upon the people of Jotunheim?" He laughs again, low and cold, because he knows he has her. "Remove your clothes. This is the last time I will ask."

She hates him.

She hates them _all_.

Jane jerks her gown over her head so hard she hears something rip. Stamping down hard on the instinct to cover herself, she settles for glaring at the Jotunn prince and imagining she could cause him to burst into flames with the force of her rage. Spontaneous combustion is a force of physics, of _science_, not magic.

If Loki notices her fury he doesn't give any sign of caring. "Better," he says, looking over her exposed body, gaze lingering in all the usual places. "Much better. Lay back on the bed."

_He can't touch me_, Jane reminds herself as she reclines. The silk sheets are warm against her back, but the room is cool, and growing cooler with every moment. It's no mystery what's coming next, but she's safe… in a way. _He can't hurt me. He doesn't dare. He's just a spoiled, bratty kid who wants to play with someone else's toys. The hell with him._

Loki steps closer, until his knees are brushing the side of the mattress. "You're flushed," he observes.

"That happens when I'm angry."

"Ah. And here I had hoped there might be another reason."

She snorts. "You don't know much about women, do you."

That bit of snark earns her another one of his genuine smiles. If he wasn't, you know, a _frost giant_, he'd be very attractive. "I know a great deal about a great many things, Jane Foster." He makes his words a caress.

They pool the rage in her blood into different kind of heat — just a little.

"Now touch yourself."

Jane takes a deep breath and, deliberately misunderstanding, grabs a lock of her hair and begins to braid it. Contemptuously.

The temperature drops another five degrees. "As much as your disobedience amuses me, a little of such goes a long way, especially from a mortal who sees fit to walk amongst the gods. Obey me, as your kind were _made_ to obey."

This is revolting, _he_ is revolting, (and she is revolted by the feeling that stirs in her at the tone of his voice), but the sooner she does it the sooner he'll lose interest. Jane closes her eyes, brings one hand up to cup her breast, and thinks of the skies of New Mexico. She should never have left.

It's impossible to pretend, though, when she hears the hitch in his breathing. "Harder," he murmurs. "The way I would touch you."

She squeezes dutifully — and, to her great annoyance, imagines a larger, colder hand in place of her own. Her rage flares and sinks simultaneously, before settling to a dull throb deep in her belly. "If you wanted more than this," she says, "you should be in bed with another frost giant."

"Perhaps," he replies, and that's a lot of acid stored in a single word. "But when one travels as widely as I do, one develops more… _exotic_ tastes. Spread your legs."

She does, and she doesn't wait for his order to slip her fingers between her thighs; if she acts first, on her own, it's almost like she's still making the decisions. She's deeply disturbed (and not as shocked as she should be) to find herself already wet. The moan that chokes in her throat has got to be some kind of a sin.

Once she gets back to Earth — if she ever gets back to Earth — Jane's getting herself some therapy.

"There, now." Loki's voice has dipped another octave, and she keeps her eyes shut tight. "Is this not simpler?"

"Simpler and sick."

"Sick need not be unpleasant. Faster."

She hardly needs the encouragement. _Just get it over with_, she tells herself as she slides in one finger, then a second, and tries to think of her jackass ex-boyfriend, of the _human_ lovers she's had, but a chilled palm ghosts _just_ out of contact with her shoulder and a frigid breath brushes across her cheek. The crisp smell of winter mornings combines with her own warm scent.

Jane knows exactly where she is, what she's doing, and who she's with.

She writhes against her own hand and hates him.

Loki chuckles in her ear, as though he's read her thoughts. "I _like_ you, Jane Foster," he says, and she can feel his frozen skin dangerously close to her own. "So bitter! You loathe me with _such_ desperation, and you would take me inside you in a heartbeat if you could."

"_You're_ the one who's risking another war so you can pretend to fuck your frenemy's 'trinket'." She opens her eyes long enough to glare at him, all carved markings and bright irises, his lips inches from her own, and thinks for a moment about the danger of developing _exotic tastes_. "So don't talk to _me_ about bitter, asshole."

He bares his teeth.

In his otherworldly face she sees her own death.

But instead of crushing her throat, he growls: "My _pretending_ is going to ruin you for every other man you will meet in your fleeting mortal life."

And Loki is suddenly over her, his right leg between hers, his knee shoving hard against her hand and forcing it deeper into her flesh, his leather and armor so cold against her bare thighs that she gasps in shock. There's no other contact and thank goodness for that because it would hurt like hell, the ice of him stings the backs of her fingers even through his clothes but she follows his brutal lead and grinds down and strokes herself inside and out and everything, _everything_ locks together like molecules snapping into place—

"_Look at me_, Jane Foster," Loki commands, but his eyes are on her mouth, and Jane sees that he would kiss her if he could, just as she knows she would respond and hate herself for it— "look at me, and _never_ see another."

She looks.

* * *

_Once upon a time, a mortal woman faced the indifference of the gods. The indifference that began thousands of years before her birth, the indifference that continued thousands of years after her death. The indifference that taught humans their utter irrelevance, how they would never be more than pawns of pawns in an endless game crossing undreamed worlds and beyond._

_Once upon a time, a mortal woman was pursued by a god for no other reason than spite for another. A god who took pleasure in the mortal woman's desire and malice until his pleasure overwhelmed him into pain. A god who returned the mortal woman to her world, out of the reach of the deities she had come to loathe, and could do nothing thereafter but curse her name in his dreams until there were no dreams left to be had._

_Once upon a time, a god came to the realm of his enemy, knelt, and begged for mercy from the only one in the universe with the power to grant his desire. A god whose eyes turned from red to blue, whose skin turned from blue to white. A god who traveled to a primitive realm, where no good ever came of his visits, to delight in the hatred of a mortal woman._

_Once upon a time, a god offered a mortal woman a golden apple with a lie of apology and without a sliver of regret._


	4. Wherein Thor is late to the party

**Kurukami: Soooooo hmmm. OK. Barriers between Jane and Loki, in the SHIELD sense. Picture Loki in the Hulk-cage, and Jane called in to consult on the possibilities of the Einstein-Rosen bridge research by Agent Coulson. Loki drops some tantalizing hints, and Jane wants to pick over his knowledge, but Jane's not exactly a trained interrogator. Loki starts out trying to subtly manipulate her, while being carefully watched (indirectly) by maybe Natasha, but grows intrigued by her knowledge and dimensional intuition. Infatuation results?**

* * *

_Wherein Thor is late to the party and Nick Fury never saw The Silence of the Lambs. (Humor. AU. PG-13.)_

* * *

"I don't like this," says Romanov, for the fourth time.

"Your objection is duly noted." Fury adjusts the video stream from what was intended to be the Hulk's cell. The feed's been jumping into pixels at random moments. "Someone want to tell me again why we can't hear what they're saying?"

Coulson's shoulders raise and lower with what might be considered a sigh on someone actually given to sighing. "The guy in charge of audio was playing Galaga."

"Tens of millions of dollars went into building the surveillance on this aircraft, and you're telling me that one gamer screwed it up?"

"It only takes one," says Coulson.

On screen, Jane Foster, all plaid shirt and three-day-unwashed hair, says something to the Asgardian prisoner. A broad smile is all she gets in response.

"I don't like this," says Romanov, for the fifth time. "It should be me in there. I can handle him."

"No one doubts your abilities, Agent Romanov, but unless you've added three degrees in astrophysics to your personel file in the last twelve hours, then we're going to stick with the only person in the world who might have a chance of figuring out what Loki wants Selvig to do with the tesseract."

Coulson raises an eyebrow. He hasn't been protesting the way Romanov has, but it's perfectly obvious that he doesn't approve of bringing in Jane Foster either. "The _only_ person?"

"I am not putting an interdimensional psychopath in the same room with Bruce Banner. And no," Fury cuts Romanov off before she can interrupt, "Stark isn't an option either. The weight of the combined megalomania would sink this ship. This is what we're doing. Live with it."

Foster has started pacing and gesturing with her hands. Wildly. Furiously. So far Loki hasn't been observed saying much of anything, but he hasn't ignored her, either. That's something.

On a day with more rolls of the dice than he can count, bringing in Foster is one of the biggest. If she can't get Selvig's plan out of Loki, she might get something else. She has a history with his brother. Therefore she has to be an object of some interest to him — and when a prisoner is faced with an object of interest, he can reveal more than he intends.

Nick Fury has been at this for a long time.

Romanov leans in closer to the screen. She and Coulson are the only ones Fury trusts to observe along with him; they're the only ones with the right kind of experience to understand what an interrogation should and shouldn't look like. "What's she doing?"

Having produced a sharpie from nowhere — a trick that seems to come with any post-graduate degree in hard science — Foster has started scribbling numbers across the glass wall of Loki's cell. Every now and then she circles a particular number, or underlines a trigonometric equation with dark slashes.

Loki's grin keeps widening.

"That," says Coulson, "is never going to come off."

Fury just shakes his head. "She can deface whatever property she wants as long as she gets us what we need."

Foster spreads her arms wide in the universal gesture of _I can't make it any clearer than I already have, idiot._ Loki just shrugs elegantly, as though her frustration couldn't possibly make the slightest bit of difference to him, and says something.

Foster throws her sharpie on the floor.

"I don't like this," says Romanov for the sixth time.

To tell the truth, Fury's starting to have doubts as well. But when one is in charge of a super-secret initiative involving the most powerfully unstable individuals on earth, one does not reveal doubt. "Five more minutes. Then we'll send her to Stark and Banner."

Coulson's phone buzzes. He glances at the message, then taps the side of the screen where a human woman is yelling at a god for not instantly understanding all the nuances of advanced theoretical astrophysics.

The display goes blank.

"Apparently," says Coulson, "we have to turn it off and on again."

Fucking Galaga.

When the screen comes back on thirty seconds later, the audio comes with it. _"It's mass-energy equivalence!"_ Jane Foster is yelling. She jabs her finger at the _E = mc2_ in the center of the glass. _"I don't care **where** you're from or **how** you travel, it's a constant!"_

_"Is it."_

_"Yes! It is!"_

Loki hums, and waves his hand casually at Foster's writing.

As if made of nothing more than wisps of paper, the numbers lift, swirl, float across the glass… and rearrange themselves into a new set of equations.

Foster's jaw drops.

"Okay," says Romanov, "I don't like that he can do that."

"Neither do I," says Coulson.

_"Oh, my God."_ Foster steps close to the cell, eyes riveted to whatever's so important about the new math. _"That doesn't… you can't…"_

_"I believe I just did."_

_"You said you didn't know about differential equations!"_

_"I don't. I simply know the Bifrost, same as anyone else who isn't bound to this primitive realm. Also, I lied."_

Foster drops to her knees and scrambles for her sharpie. _"I need some paper,"_ she says frantically._ "I have to write this down—"_

The numbers vanish from the glass.

_"Oh, my apologies."_ Loki folds his hands behind his back. _"Was that interesting to you?"_

"Uh-oh," says Coulson.

Romanov's out of her seat and striding for the door before Fury can say a word to stop her. A moment later Fury sees her on the screen, pulling Foster away from the cage. _"No no no, you can't **do** that, you can't just **disprove the theory of relativity** and **wipe it out**, you bring it back or I'll—"_

Loki bows, just a little, and with great mockery. _"I do hope we'll meet again, Jane Foster. I have **so** much more to show you."_

Then the audio screeches, crackles, and goes dead again.

_Mother_fucking Galaga.

"I can hear you thinking," Fury tells Coulson as they watch Romanov forcibly remove Foster from the scene. "So just say whatever you're going to say."

"I met Jane Foster in New Mexico," says Coulson.

"And?"

"And her work is her life."

"So?"

"So Stark needs to hire her. He needs to give her free reign of his research and development labs. And funding. And whatever else she wants. Right away." A pause. "Before she gets a better offer."

Fury watches the screen for another moment.

Loki looks up at the camera. And smirks.

"Make it happen," says Fury.

By general measurement, his gamble has been a waste at best. No secrets of the tesseract had been extracted. Agents Romanov and Coulson were questioning his judgment. They were no closer to averting war.

But Fury hadn't missed how Loki's eyes had gleamed when Foster was on her knees.

He suspects this gamble won't turn out to be a loss.


	5. Wherein Loki learns a new trick

**einfach_mich: Kid Loki learns to visit other people's dreams and stumbles upon a girl who dreams in numbers.**

* * *

_Wherein Loki learns a new trick and Frigga worries. (Family/Angst. Arguably canon-compliant. PG.)  
_

_Please ignore the fact that Loki's childhood took place about two thousand years before Jane's birth._

* * *

The unspoken secret of raising children is that every parent has their favorite.

Not that it's a matter of love; Frigga could not love one son more than the other even if she tried. As well ask her which lung she values greater, which side of her heart she finds more vital. She would die for them both; she would kill for them both. They are equal in her mother's soul.

But Thor has always been Odin's. He is growing up brash and loud, with so much energy for _everything_ he can hardly hold the enthusiasm in his own skin. His easy confidence charms whomever he meets, and Frigga adores the way he has a friendly grin for every living being in the Realm Eternal. She swells with pride at his fearlessness, which time will temper into wiser courage. He wants nothing more than to be his father. He hangs on Odin's every word — and Odin favors him in turn. They cannot help it. They are too alike.

Whereas Loki…

From the moment Odin laid their second son in her arms, Loki has been all _hers_.

It is one of the reasons she is teaching him her tricks.

Loki sits before her now, legs crossed, eyes bright. "I'm ready," he says, wiggling in excitement. "Can we start?"

Frigga longs to pull him into her lap, as she did when they began their lessons long ago. He is too big for that now. "You must be still, Loki," she tells him. "Still, and relaxed. If you do not control yourself, you cannot control your magic. You could hurt someone."

"Thor hurts people with his sword when _he_ trains."

"Battle hurts bodies. Magic hurts minds. Minds are far more difficult to heal than bodies. Always remember that."

Her son nods. Sharply. "I will. Always."

"Good. Now, like we practiced."

Loki closes his eyes obediently. His features, which have been sharpening as the baby fat fades away with age, soften into a quiet, placid expression. Almost too quiet and placid. Almost too much like a mask.

It is becoming harder for Frigga to tell when Loki is genuinely calm, and when he is simply caging his emotions behind a wall of ice. Perhaps one day she will not see the difference.

No. Odin always tells her she frets overmuch. Frigga knows her son. She will always know when he is hiding something. He is calm. He is ready. He can do this.

But he peeks at her all the same. "You _are_ coming with me?" he asks nervously.

She smiles. "Of course I am."

"All right." They both close their eyes this time. Frigga hears Loki take a deep breath—

—and a rush of energy swirls around them both, pulling them into a current of thoughts as relentlessly as a river surging towards a waterfall. She doesn't even have to alter their direction; a small touch to steady the pace is all that is required. She will tell Odin of how splendidly their son has performed on his first try, and she'll see to it her husband, who may not recognize on his own what a great feat this is, is as strong in her praise as she is.

Their stop amongst the mists is a little rough — that's to be expected. Starting is always easier than stopping, in all things. Insubstantial in an insubstantial world, both present and not present, she watches her son without watching as he looks about without looking. "There's so many," he breathes without breathing.

"Midgardians do love their sleep." Frigga nudges him forward without nudging. "Go on. Choose well."

It is, perhaps, _somewhat_ questionable that she is allowing her son to try this at so young an age. Touching dreams is a very precise art. But Loki is so talented, and more importantly, Loki is so _alone_. His older brother adores him (and how Frigga wishes Loki saw that more clearly), but their interests and temperments are growing more different by the day. Thor has many friends. Loki has none. And, more worrisome, Loki does not seem to _care_. He detests being teased by Thor's new playmates, but he makes no effort to find his own.

In human dreams, he needn't stand in his brother's shadow.

"That one." Loki points without pointing. "That one there, with the numbers."

It takes Frigga a moment to sort through the nebulous, fragile clouds of fantasy, but the mortal her son has chosen soon makes herself apparent. A girlchild, roughly his own age — by human standards, anyway, how does one count Midgardian years? Frigga cannot recall — staring down at her cupped hands. From between her fingers flow endless sand grains of numerals. They blow away in an imaginary wind as they fall.

Frigga delicately pulls without pulling; the girlchild's dream floats closer, gains definition, becomes lines and shapes and colors. She's a pretty little thing. Frigga wonders with a twinge of alarm if that's why Loki chose as he did, if her boys have grown up so _very_ much, before reminding herself that her sons still frequently amuse themselves by playing hide-and-seek in the throne room. There is a great deal of time left before she need worry over their notice of pretty girls. "Here you are," she says. "_Gently._"

Loki takes a breath without breathing. He steps without stepping.

Frigga's heart is in her throat as her son enters the mortal's dream without so much as a shiver.

The scene sharpens abruptly into a grassy Midgardian field, dark with deep night. The girlchild doesn't look up as Loki approaches, only frowns at the specks of numbers still falling from her hands. "There's too many," she says before Loki has a chance to speak — for mortal dreams rarely require introduction or explanation. "I can't remember them all."

"Oh. Well, you ought write them down; that is what I would do." Loki is all grace and confidence. Only a mother would know his uncertainty.

"Too many," the girlchild repeats. "I'll _never_ get it, _never_." Loki reaches out for one of the falling grains, but the girl snatches her hands back. "No, don't touch! They're _mine_."

Loki scowls. He has rarely heard the word _No_ from anyone but his parents; few dare lecture a Prince of Asgard. "I only want a few."

"Well, you can't have them."

He doesn't listen, and tries for the numbers again.

The girlchild kicks him in the shin.

"I… you… how _dare_ you!"

"I told you not to touch!"

"You don't need _all_ of them!"

"I do!"

"You _don't!_"

"I do! Watch!" And the girlchild throws her handful of sand numbers into the air.

They lodge in the midnight sky, turn white and bright, transform into stars.

"See?" The girlchild and Loki are both staring up now, faces pale in the starlight, little noses casting shadows across their youthful cheeks. "You see how many? I can't remember them all!"

"I can," Loki says quickly, and later Frigga will take him to task for that. Lying is unacceptable, even to a mortal, even in dreams — but that is the one vice no one has been able to draw out of her son, even her.

"You can not."

"I can so!"

"Then show me!" The girlchild traces her finger through the air; lines follow her fantasy touch, connecting star to star, until a crude figure sketches out above them. "What's that?"

Loki bites his lip and blushes. Frigga has seen to it both he and Thor were taught the skies of Asgard, but they bear no relation to Midgard.

The girlchild waits a few moments before telling him: "It's Gemini." The combativeness has almost instantly vanished from her tone. "Look, that one's Castor—" a tiny number at the corner of the sketch flares red "—and that's Pollux—" another flare "—and down there is Tejat—" another flare "—and next to it is Mek… Mek… no, _Meb_suta, Mekbuda's on the other side—"

"Are you going to tell me _all_ of these?" Loki interrupts, staring at her, utterly appalled.

The girlchild glances at his face for the first time. "Yes," she says simply, as though she couldn't conceive of anything in all the realms that a person would want more than to hear every star in the wide skies listed by name. Then a shadow crosses her expression, and she mutters: "As many as I can remember, anyway."

Frigga's precious, perceptive, lonely second son stares at the strange little girlchild for a long moment.

And then he shrugs. "All right," he says.

The girlchild beams. "Okay. Good. Good! Now, see, next to Gemini, that's Cancer, and it's a little easier because there's only five…"

Many hours later, when the girlchild begins to fade back to the haze, when Frigga pulls Loki free from the collapsing dream without pulling, when they come back to themselves in the darkened halls of Asgard, when the mother leads the exhausted son to his bed and tucks him in as he will soon no longer allow her to do, Frigga says: "You did very well. And next time I'm certain you will find a livelier dreamer."

Loki shakes his head. "No. I want her."

Frigga pauses. "It is very difficult to find a mortal more than once in the mists," she explains. "It will have to be someone different."

"But I want _her_."

"We do not always get what we want, dear one." Frigga cannot help but smile when he rolls away in a huff. "But you never know," she says. "Individuals can be located much more easily once you've met them in the flesh. Perhaps one day your paths will cross." She kisses her son's temple. "Sweet dreams, Loki."

He is asleep before she has even left the room.

* * *

When she wakes the next day, seven-year-old Jane Foster, who had cried herself to sleep over her father's sky charts, cannot remember of what she'd dreamed… but finds she can remember _every one_ of the elusive stars that had caused her so much grief.


	6. Wherein Jane knows right from wrong

**bldskr asked you: Prompt? Jane doesn't agree with Loki not being allowed to Frigga's funeral, so offers to tell him the news herself and maybe ends up comforting him (or he's manipulating her into thinking that he "needs comfort")**

* * *

_Wherein Jane knows right from wrong. (T:TDW AU. PG-13.)_

* * *

When Jane heard _dungeons_, she had pictured something out of a period film: rough stone walls, rusting bars, creaking hinges, maybe a couple immortal god-rats scurrying down the corridors. The whole spooky Renfest Halloween effect. Tower of London meets Norse Pantheon.

But she should have known better. Asgard's dungeons _do_ have stone walls, but they're just as artistically pristine as the rest of the palace architecture. In fact, the only sign of the battle earlier that day is a faint smell of roasted meat.

Ick.

Jane walks down the hall and peeks into the cells, each of which appear to be made of some sort of electromagnetic generated forcefield, seemingly insubstantial but flexible and perforated for free movement of molecules and yet very obviously resilient if it can contain a bunch of eight-foot armored aliens with bad tempers, if she could somehow get a couple of scanners from her lab she could take a few readings and—

No. Stop. No time for that. She has to find—

"And _what_ have we here?"

Or he'll find her. Either way.

Jane tiptoes down to the last cell on the right. She's never met Thor's brother before, but she's seen the grainy footage from New York, same as everyone else on Earth, and she recognizes him even without the horned helmet. He's all height and hair and cheekbones and arrogance.

It's the last one that makes her suddenly feel two inches tall. "Um, hi," she says to the Trickster God of Chaos. "I'm Jane. Foster."

Loki just stares at her. He doesn't look like a guy who's just been told his mother died, but then, looks can be deceiving. "_Jane Foster_," he says slowly — before his lips curve in what can only be described as a very worrisome smirk. "Yes, of course you are."

Jane blinks. "Thor told you about me?" Apparently she's _really_ made the rounds.

"Once. A rather long time ago. I intended to pay you a visit… and instead _you've_ sought _me_." He nods to her, and Jane's suddenly reminded of her theoretical physics professor back at Cal Tech, who gave her an F on her midterm and told her that she'd be better bring herself back down to earth before she blacklisted herself from every graduate program in western civilization. "Tell me, why have you come?"

That requires some explanation. She starts with: "I'm sorry. About your mother."

Loki doesn't bat an eye, but for a fleeting second the cell _flickers_, and Jane would swear she caught a glimpse of broken furniture. "She was not my mother," he says. "Why have you come?"

Jane's bad with people. _Very_ bad. She still sees that that's bullshit. "Her funeral is tonight. There's, um, supposed to be a boat, and some kind of lights thing—"

"Yes, mortal, I _was_ raised in this palace. I know the rites. Why have you come?"

It's not too late to turn back. No one would ever know she'd been here. That would unquestionably be the smart thing to do.

Jane's got an IQ of 165, but when it comes to stuff like this, she's never been good at doing the smart thing.

"I thought," she says, "you would want to go."

Loki just blinks at her.

"Thor argued with Odin about it," Jane elaborates after a minute of silence. There's a perverse satisfaction in knowing she's struck a god speechless — especially _this_ god, who's supposed to have a comeback to everything. "He — Thor, I mean — thinks Frigga would have wanted you there, and Odin said no. But Odin isn't _my_ king, and Frigga saved my life, and…" She trails off, ending with a shrug, unable to articulate further.

Loki continues to stare, and Jane feels like a butterfly pinned to a board. Biology was never her strength. "You must suffer truly terrible demons," he says finally, "if you would use _me_ to excise them."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've no skill for dissembling, Jane Foster, so a little honesty, if you please. _Why have you come?_"

Fine. "My dad died in a car accident when I was seven," she says flatly. "They said I was too young for the funeral, so I stayed home. It doesn't matter how many times I go to his grave; facts aren't facts until you can see them in your data. In my head he's always going to be at the grocery store picking up milk." She swallows. "There are things that are wrong, and this is one of them. You should get to go."

The cell flickers again, and this time Jane's sure she saw a man in rags screaming with rage. "And do you imagine I'll simply return to this prison afterwards, like a penitent child accepting punishment for a sin I've not committed?"

Jane's mouth drops open. "You've not _committed—_ you _did_ try to take over the world, right?"

"Well, yes."

"I'd say that counts as a sin!"

"We'll agree to disagree. You haven't answered my question."

She hasn't. Admittedly, this is the part of the problem she's avoided thinking about. "I thought maybe we'd do this on the honor system," she says lamely.

And, yep, he's struck him speechless _again_. She's getting kind of proud of it.

"You," he finally manages to say, "may have the distinction of being the most foolish human I have _ever_ met."

What an ungrateful brat. "I'm not an idiot," Jane snaps. "I know who you are. And if you don't come back afterwards, I'll—"

"You'll what? Tattle to my brother?"

"Yes." Jane flexes her hands, feeling the aether stir in her veins. If she's stuck with all this power that's slowly consuming her from the inside out, she may as well put it to good use. "But that's not all I'll do."

Loki's expression changes; he comes closer to the edge of the cell, looks her over harder, gold softening him from the glaring white lights above. Whatever he sees causes him to smile. "You become more intriguing by the minute, Jane Foster," he says, chuckling. "Now, not to question such a detailed and ingenious scheme, but how precisely do you propose to get me out of this prison?"

Jane glances around and tries not to fidget. "Um… well… my plan was sort of contingent on there being a door. And keys."

"And here I was told you were clever."

"I'm making this up as I go."

"_That_ is readily apparent."

"Excuse me, which one of us is trapped in a dungeon?" Asshole. She takes a few steps backwards. "Do you want me to leave you here after all? Because I can do that. The funeral's in an hour. I shouldn't be late."

Another flicker. Splatters of blood across the floor and wall, gone again as quickly as they were there.

"No," Loki says quietly. "Please don't."

"All right, then. How does the generator work?"

"By magic."

"By _science_." Okay, that's probably an argument for another time. "But I meant, how do I take it down?"

Loki walks her through the process, pointing out all the hidden switches in the pillars, being shockingly patient as she fumbles through senseless Asgardian symbols as foreign to her as hieroglyphics. But after what feels like a very long time but probably wasn't more than a few minutes, the golden forcefield collapses, and Loki is free.

Jane swallows as he leaps lightly from his cell to the floor. "You stay in my sight at all times," she tells him. "Deal?"

His face splits into a wide grin — just before transforming into a nondescript guard. "That," he says with a new voice, "is a promise I am most willing to keep."

"Good. Oh, and one more thing." Jane puts the aether behind her punch, and the guard's head snaps to the side with the force of the blow. "_That_ was for New York."

It is _really_ annoying how the guard doesn't do anything but laugh.

As they sneak out of the dungeon, Jane glances back, just once. She was right. Everything in cell they've left behind is demolished.

Drops of blood follow them with every step.


	7. Ordinary Love 2 (moved)

**masayume85 said: Fluff and sex and happy. That's what I need. I am still in mental recovery after that drabble.**

* * *

_Wherein everything is sticky. (PWP. NC-17.)_

* * *

_**The Banished!Odinsons drabbles now have their own home in Ordinary Love.**_


	8. Ordinary Love 3 (moved)

**audreyii_fic said: dammit i just wanna write some mama!frigga and y'all can't stop me YOLO BITCHEZ**

* * *

_Wherein Frigga checks on her sons, Darcy introduces Thor to Jägermeister, Loki and Jane get a proper bed, and Audrey answers her own prompt. Because reasons. (Drama/Romance. PG.)  
_

_Still in the Odinsons Are Banished AU, where it's possible - just possible - that not everything will end in fire and blood._

* * *

_**The Banished!Odinsons drabbles now have their own home in Ordinary Love.**_


	9. Ordinary Love 4 (moved)

**puella-magi-homura-akemi asked you: ** **prompts for odinsons are banished! Jane and Darcy decide to show Thor and Loki around town, like take them to a mall or a Wal-Mart or something, & drama happens. Or Loki gets bored & decides to explore. Or both.**

**mujaki said: Darcy is something of a periphery character in these drabbles (the better for Lokane goodness), but she and Thor have an interesting thing going on… how about something from her perspective starting from when the "pets" showed up?**

* * *

_Wherein Darcy and Thor go shopping while Loki and Jane... whatever. (Humor. G.)_

_(Vaguely combined the two. Sort of. In a way. I just wanted to write something fluffy, okay? I DON'T WANT TO HURT ANYMORE.)_

* * *

_**The Banished!Odinsons drabbles now have their own home in Ordinary Love.**_


	10. Wherein Crimson Peak leads to steampunk

**Inspired by the life-ruining filming photos of Crimson Peak that are floating around. It's Tom Hiddleston in Victorian garb, people. What else was I supposed to do?**

* * *

_Wherein Mr. Thor Odinson, the handsome and dashing titled heir, is marrying the lovely and very, very proper Jane Foster. Miss Foster, who has always obeyed convention and certainly never done anything the least bit scandalous… like hiding copies of _Views of the architecture of the heavens_ and _Vestiges of the natural history of creation_ and, worst of all,_ On the origins of species_ beneath the petticoats in her steamertrunk. It is the perfect match of wealth and status — or would be, if Miss Foster were not developing a curiosity about her affianced's younger brother, who always turns up for supper with a smile and vanishes again into the east wing of the estate, where explosions can be heard long through the night._

* * *

"You ought to be in bed, Miss Foster," Mr. Loki Odinson — the name a gift from his foreign but respectably bloodlined mother — says, not looking up from his microscope. "Your uncle Selvig would have much to say about his ward wandering the halls at half-past two in the morning."

"I would not wander the halls if I could sleep," replies Jane, though she hitches her dressing gown tighter, and rather wishes she'd thought to bind her hair. (Though if she'd stopped to make herself presentable, she'd have thought better of such a venture entirely and never left her chambers.) "How the rest of the house sleeps through your 'experiments' is beyond my understanding."

"Oh, they've grown quite accustomed to the occasional loud bang."

Jane gestures to the long table that dominates the room — secured to the floor with steel bolts the size of her fist — and the smoke which still rises from the broken glass of a dozen shattered beakers. "I would call that more than a 'loud bang', sir."

"Would you."

"I would."

"Well, Miss Foster, I fear _you_ will have no choice but to grow accustomed to them as well, once you wed my dear brother." Mr. Odinson makes two small adjustments to his instrument, long fingers flitting across the knobs and dials with the ease of long practice, then scribbles a note on the sheaf of paper at his side. "Thor will not be master of this house for some time yet, and Father has never objected to my… work."

"A mystery in and of itself."

"Hardly. It keeps me out of sight. Now run along, little Miss Foster, before an enterprising maid discovers you unchaperoned in a man's presence." He grins. "In your nightclothes."

Jane is rather surprised he noticed her attire, given that he's not spared her so much as a glance since she entered. And his advisement, though impertinently delivered, isn't wrong. She ought return to bed. At once.

She steps closer. "What are you doing?"

"Making magic, of course."

"There is no such thing."

"Of course not," he says, mockingly, _dismissively_. "There is only God."

"No," she retorts without thinking. "There is only _science_."

Mr. Odinson's notations pause.

He sets aside his pen, turns about full in his chair, and fixes her with a penetrating stare.

It is the first time Jane has seen him without his dark, omnipresent spectacles. His eyes are green.

"Could you repeat that?" he says quietly.

Jane, horrified, claps her hand over her mouth.

"Now, now, Miss Foster. I've yet to see an idea contained by closing one's lips — even lips my family so _often_ sees mouthing platitudes at chapel."

She lowers her hand at once, unable to bear his ridicule. "It was a mistake," she says. "I am very tired, sir. And— and you made me angry. I misspoke."

"Oh, no doubt." He leans forward, resting his elbows upon his knees. Jane is reminded of the arachnid anatomy illustrations in her books. Indifferently, as though they are discussing no more than the temperature of tea, he remarks: "Perhaps you are less insipid than I've found you thus far, Miss Foster."

"Excuse me?"

"Insipid. It means spiritless. Commonplace. _Dull._"

"I know what it means," she snaps, stung.

"So it would seem. And yet, can you blame me for my misconception? Until a few moments ago I would not have guessed you knew more than the words printed within the Book of Common Prayer." His smile widens. "I begin to suspect my dear brother isn't quite aware of what he's acquired in his lady love."

Jane wishes very much to wipe the smirk from her future brother's face with a well-placed slap, announcing to him and the world that she is no one's _acquisition_ — but such words have sat upon the edge of her tongue for a lifetime. This idle scorn will not be what coaxes them to be spoken at last. "I should be returning to my chambers," she says, bobbing a small, perfectly executed curtsey, dressing gown and all."I bid you good night, Mr. Odinson."

"You are quite welcome to bid me _good night_ if you wish," he replies, "though I _thought_ I heard you request an explanation of my doings."

"Indeed, but I've no interest in _magic_, sir," she says haughtily.

"No, only in science." Mr. Odinson pushes his chair another foot backwards, leaving enough room for a reasonably slender person to stand between him and his microscope, and gestures to the device with an elegant wave. "If you believe it is not magic I create through my labors, Miss Foster, then by all means… prove me wrong."

Jane swallows, glancing at the door, which opens to the corridor which comes to the stairs which take her to her chambers which contain her soft bed and her petticoats and her corsets to be worn for tomorrow's luncheon.

That is, of course, where she belongs.

Mr. Odinson — the Mr. Odinson to whom she is _not_ betrothed — extends his hand.

Jane steps forward to look through the microscope.


	11. Wherein Loki & Jane aren't like the rest

**So I had a fever and watched The Secret Garden and then this happened. Standard disclaimer that Thor and Loki's childhood actually took place about two thousand years before Jane's birth. Eat me, canon.**

* * *

_Wherein Loki and Jane are not like the rest of them. (Family/Romance-ish. PG.)_

* * *

The tale is such:

The Queen the Realm Eternal bore the All-Father a single son, Prince Thor. After him there were no more.

And she cried.

There were murmurs that perhaps the realm would be better served if the King put her aside, but any who were found to be speaking such thoughts aloud faced quick and severe retribution.

But shortly thereafter came Loki, a child of origin unknown to the people of Asgard. The All-Father treated him indulgently, allowing him to be raised in the palace and play with his heir, a son and brother in all but name.

The few who could remember said that the previous King would never have permitted such a thing. But then, _his_ wife had not been possessed of an iron will. It was well known that this wife — the sorceress — always got her way in the end, by one method or another.

And the Queen was happier, but still lonely.

Then came the mortal girl.

The orphan to whom even the All-Father, in his great indulgence, refused entry. The orphan who nearly ended the Gatekeeper's watch, for it was he who told the Queen of the girlchild — who possessed no Sight, but has seen all, and will see all again — that _this_ one would play a part, one way or another. The orphan whom the Queen herself retrieved shaking from the wreckage of a mechanical carriage and settled into the royal chambers before the King even knew what was happening.

Nearly all of Asgard heard his fury when his queen's actions were revealed.

He raged that a mortal had no place among the Aesir.

He raged that of all the children of the nine realms, his queen would not, _could_ not choose a Midgardian to sit at the table of kings.

He raged that the girlchild would at _once_ be returned to where she came from, and they would never speak of this folly again.

The Queen said: _I wish for a daughter. And I will have none but her._

So Jane Foster became the second ward of the Palace of Asgard.

And the Queen was content.

* * *

Time is a strange thing, between realms.

Time is stranger when a mortal girl drinks tea that tastes of apple at each meal.

* * *

The day that Sif gains special permission to train with the warriors is the day Jane knows jealousy beyond any she'd felt before.

Maidens aren't supposed to be warriors. That's the rule of the Aesir. But no, there she is, hair shining, sword in hand, learning the same things as everyone else. Maybe some of the others are scoffing, but she is there anyway.

Jane will never, _ever_ be allowed to learn.

Not that she really _wants_ to, but…

So she runs away. She shuts herself in her chambers. She cries.

(She seems to do that a lot lately, and without much warning. Frigga has promised that all these mood swings are just part of becoming a woman, and it will settle soon; if so, Jane can't grow up fast enough.)

It's Loki who uses his magic to unlock her door an hour later. Jane is sure he's disobeyed Frigga to do it — if the Queen had thought she needed consolation instead of privacy, she would have been there herself, stroking Jane's back and murmuring words of comfort.

Loki doesn't have words of comfort. He never does. But he sits on the edge of her bed, studying his hands as she sobs into her pillow.

"I'm not permitted to train, either," he tells her once she's down to sniffles. "But I don't cry."

"Easy for you to say. _You're_ learning magic."

"Only by Frigga's will. And she would teach you as well if you weren't human."

_If you were not human._ She hears that a lot. At least from Loki it's a statement, not an insult.

"We're not like them, you know," he says.

"You are. You're Aesir. You're Loki of Asgard; I'm Jane Foster of Midgard."

"Fosterdóttir," he corrects. "You at least belonged to someone."

Jane frowns. She doesn't like that name; she'll always be Foster.

Midgard is only a faded dream, now, and so is her first family. She can't even remember her mother — whenever she tries it's only Queen Frigga's face she sees, but that's okay, that's the only face she _wants_ to see. Her father, though… there are still little memories. He talked about the stars. He screamed when the car crashed.

She was eight when that happened. She's not sure how old she is now. She's mortal, so she _has_ to be younger than Loki and Thor, but it doesn't seem like it. It doesn't feel like it.

(Thor's just started shaving and chased them around the throne room when they laughed at the dots of blood across his chin. Loki vanished, of course, but Jane was captured, tickled to within an inch of her life, and tossed into the courtyard fountain. Both Loki and Thor had stared when she climbed out sputtering and swearing vengeance, her gown clinging to every inch of her skin. Frigga had caught them and sent everyone to their chambers; the next day she gave Jane her first set of chest bindings.)

Her name, though — her name, she'll keep.

"We're not like them," Loki says again. "Thor will be king one day."

"I know. He'll be a good king."

"Perhaps. But then he'll take Sif for his queen. Who knows what will happen then."

Her eyes widen in fear. "You don't know that!" she cries. "He wouldn't!"

"Of course he will. It's so obvious."

Oh, no. Jane _hates_ Sif. _Sif_ gets to train. Sif's always looking her up and down. When Sif is queen instead of Frigga, Frigga will _have_ to listen to her. She'll be sent away. People are always looking for an excuse to send Jane away. "What will happen to me?"

Loki finally glances over at her, his eyebrows furrowed, like he can't believe she would ask such a stupid question. Unlike Thor, he doesn't need to shave yet. "I'll marry you, of course."

Jane's mouth drops open. "What? No, you won't!"

"Yes, I will," he says simply. "I decided that ages ago. Thor can't; he's going to be king. So I'll do it. They'll never send you back to Midgard then."

Odin likes Loki — a lot more than he likes Jane, anyway — and Thor calls him 'brother' when Odin isn't in earshot. But that doesn't mean Loki has the power to do something like _that_. "Don't be ridiculous. No one would let you."

Loki smiles… and disappears in a shimmer of gold.

"I'd like to see them stop me," she hears behind her.

Jane rolls over in bed. Loki is laying beside her, only two feet away, looking ridiculously smug. "I didn't even feel the mattress move," she exclaims, worries momentarily forgotten.

"I know. It's a new trick. Do you like it?"

"I do," she says — just before bursting into tears again.

Thor will be king. Sif will be queen. Loki knows magic. They _belong_.

Jane doesn't want to be so jealous all the time, but she can't help it. It's this little dark place in her heart, and lately it feels like it keeps getting bigger and bigger, like something rotten eating away from the inside out. "This sucks," she hiccups, a phrase from Midgard she's held on to with determination.

"Oh, no, it won't be so bad," he assures her. "I'll make a much better husband than Thor. He and Sif will do nothing but fight with swords and words. He will drink wine all day and break all her cups. I pity her!"

Jane giggles at the thought. "It's him I feel bad for," she says, wiping her eyes with her fist. "The sun will hit all that golden hair one morning and he'll go blind."

"You don't like Sif's hair?"

"I don't like how she's so proud of it."

Loki smiles. "She ought to be. She has the most beautiful hair in all of Asgard."

Jane scowls and throws a pillow at him. Loki catches it, laughing, and she declares, "I am _not_ marrying you if you like Sif more than you like me."

"I never said I liked her more, only that she has the most beautiful hair in all of Asgard. And you _will_ marry me."

"I will _not_."

"Why? Because Sif has golden hair?"

"Exactly. No. Wait."

"I have changed my mind. You are too absurd to wed."

"I'm not absurd!"

"You are. And you're short."

"I'm going to get taller!"

"You've been saying that for ages. Are you certain Frigga didn't take you from Nidavellir?"

"I am _not_ a dwarf!" Jane sits up and tries to whack Loki with another pillow; he deflects that one just as easily, still laughing. He's so _fast_. All the Aesir are.

And there is the envy again, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing away.

The grin slowly fades from Loki's face as he watches her. "What is it?" he asks.

"Sometimes," Jane whispers — because this is the very darkest thing, and she's not sure she could say it any louder even if she tried, "sometimes I hate them."

Not Frigga. Never Frigga. But everyone else. Sometimes even Thor, just a tiny, eensy little bit. Sometimes even Loki.

But he just nods. "Sometimes I do too," he says, his voice as quiet hers.

Jane's heart lifts a little. She shouldn't have doubted that Loki would understand. Because he's right — he and she aren't like the rest of them. "We can't tell anyone. It has to be our secret." She holds out her hand. "Promise?"

Loki doesn't take it. Instead he sits up on the bed — it creaks as he does, so he's really there — leans forward, and kisses her. Just a little, just for a second, maybe less than a second. Jane barely has time to register the brush of his lips before he pulls away again.

They didn't even close their eyes.

"Our secret," he promises.

She can feel her cheeks turning hot as she nods. A kiss is a much more binding oath than a handshake, probably.

"Jane?"

Jane startles, unbalances, and falls back on the mattress. Loki jumps off the opposite side of the bed and even though he's standing there there's that tiny huff, the vanishing of his breathing that tells her he's gone and switched himself out—

But it doesn't work. Queen Frigga ignores the Loki before her, turns on her heel, and looks at the doorway she's just entered. "Stop," she commands.

It is not possible to disobey that tone of voice. The illusion at Jane's bedside vanishes, and the real Loki appears in the hall. She realizes that he'd been magicking over his own blush.

"To your rooms, Loki," Frigga says. "The two of you are entirely too old to be playing in each other's chambers. Also—" here there is the tiniest hint of a smile "—have you forgotten how to conceal your footsteps?"

Loki's blush deepens.

When they are alone, Jane braces herself for a lecture. She's not exactly sure what she's done wrong — aside from the vague feeling that Frigga might not like it that she and Loki kissed — but there's that _chastise-y_ feeling in the air.

But Frigga only comes to sit beside her and touch her cheek gently. "Tell me what troubles you, dear one," she says. "Did Loki upset you?"

"No." Unsettled, yes, but not upset. In fact, Jane might not have minded if he gave her another secret, maybe even two.

It's obvious Frigga doesn't believe her. "Our Loki," she says, as much love in her voice as when she talks about Thor, "is very, very clever — but not _quite_ as clever as he thinks he is. If he's been spinning tales for you, I advise you put them from your mind. Now, what else would cause such a look upon your pretty face?"

There are so many things — and so few she can share — that Jane has difficulty forming them into one thought. "Sif gets to train and I don't," she says finally.

"Ah. I see. And have you developed an interest in the sword, Jane Fosterdóttir?"

"Well, no, but it's… it's not…" Oh, she _is_ absurd, just like Loki said. Absurd and short. "It's not fair."

"I felt similarly, when I was your age." Jane looks up, and Frigga smiles. "I had aspirations to be a great champion as well, dear one. The first warrior maiden. It was not meant to be — but even now, all these centuries later, I cannot help but watch Sif with a twinge of envy."

"You know magic, though."

"I do." Queen Frigga's smile grows. "But that is not my only talent. Perhaps it is time you learnt a few tricks of your own, Jane Fosterdóttir."

* * *

The next day Frigga takes Jane to a quiet corner of the palace and presses a slim silver dagger into her hand. "You need not be large, nor strong, nor immortal for the art of the knife," she tells Jane. "You need only be _close."_

Jane trains until she can barely lift her arms.

On the way back to her chambers, almost too sore to walk and happier than she's been in ages, Jane hears a great commotion. And a moment later there is Loki, dashing through the corridor as though his feet are on fire, being pursued by a girl with weapon in hand.

It's Sif.

Her hair is so dark it's almost black.

_"Loki!"_ Sif shrieks, raising her double-bladed sword. _"Loki, you gutter rat, come back here and fix it!"_

Jane knows perfectly well that if Sif's chasing Loki, Loki's not being chased. She spins on her heel — and yes, there, on the far side of the hall and hiding behind a column, is the real Loki.

He raises a finger to his lips. _Shhh._ Then he grins.

Jane grins back.

Maybe she'll marry him after all.

She just has to get taller first.


	12. Wherein Loki sees the end

**starzangelus asked you: Thanos needed a way across realms, so he manipulated Jane's dreams so she would become an astrophysicist. Loki discovers he isn't the only puppet in the titan's schemes, and seeks Jane's help to stop him.**

* * *

_Wherein Loki sees the end... or so he thinks. (Avengers!AU. Drama. PG-13.)_

* * *

She's small and mortal and so desperately unimportant that it staggers Loki (or would, were he the sort to be staggered) to know she is the lynchpin to all things. But as clockwork ticks — through Germany, through Fury's cage, through the monster and his escape — his thoughts tick as well, and there is no room for doubt. Loki has spent too much time in the mind of the Other (and the Other has spent too much time in his, far, far, far too much) to miss the clues. The secrets the Other is not even aware he carries. His inferior brain cannot even _begin_ to process the destination of the road they travel — a road built with bricks laid by another, sealed with mortar ground from their bones. All of their bones.

But paths can be traversed from two directions. Doors open from both sides.

Jane Foster is the key to the door. The Titan fashioned her himself.

But it is Loki of Asgard who will turn the lock.

* * *

"You expect me to believe you," says Jane Foster. "_You_."

The scepter that feels so right in his hand could solve this conflict in an instant, but humans are broken by its influence. The ones of greater heart last much longer, but by the time Loki fled Selvig's mind had finally begun to disintegrate, and Barton did not seem far behind. (The tesseract only damages mortals, Loki reminds himself. Only mortals. Only mortals. He need not fear.) He will not risk Jane Foster's psyche unless absolutely necessary.

"Have you truly never wondered," Loki says (of all the places to hide her Fury could not have picked a more foolish location than _Norway_, one of the few places on Midgard Loki recalls with any clarity) "how you happened to be in exactly the right place to find Thor when he fell? How you brought about such a change in him in a mere three turns of your world? Do you think yourself _so_ enticing, Jane Foster? Because I assure you, you are not."

Her cheeks redden. "And everyone says you're so charming," she spits. "If you are, you're out of practice."

"I've no time to charm you, nor inclination. The longer we stay in this location the more threats we will face."

"The more threats _you_ will face, you mean — _I_ haven't done anything wrong."

"It matters not. You are a pawn of a power beyond your comprehension. Pawns are sacrificed the moment their usefulness has ended."

Jane Foster narrows her eyes. "Right. So if I'm a pawn, what does that make you?"

The scepter feels heavier, heavier. It has been a month since he ran. He ought get rid of it. Throw it in the deepest water, the hottest fire. They will find him if he does not. He has left the Other behind without the promised battle and the guaranteed reward.

_(There will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice…)_

But that monster is a piece on the board as well.

A risk it may be, but he needs this power still. He cannot release it yet.

"In this scheme, I am little more than you," says Loki. "But a pawn which survives long enough to reach the opponent's side of the board becomes as powerful as it wishes. Is that not how your game works?"

She frowns. "I don't see how just _surviving_ is supposed to stop the end of the world."

"Not just the end of your world. The end of all worlds." Thanos, the name of nightmares, the feeling on the back of his neck and poison snakes of wine beneath his skin — no, the snakes are Loki's, Thor's coronation, Gungar cool and heavy, but the scepter burns bright blue. (It only damages mortals. Only mortals.) "In the end, we are all doing little more scraping for our lives, are we not?"

"Very philosophical." Jane Foster pauses. "You're saying _I'm_ the one who's supposed to let this Thanos into our dimension."

"You were _made_ to do so. It is your fate, unless we change it."

"If we can change it, it's not fate. There's no such thing."

"For both our sakes, Jane Foster, I hope you are right." He could compel her obedience so easily, and in so very many ways. He does not wish to. Not unless he must. If she breaks there is no telling what will happen.

She examines his face with a scrutiny Loki finds deeply disturbing. "You're sick," she says after a moment, and very carefully. "You know that, right?"

"I've been told."

"No, I mean you _look_ sick. Is there anyone who—" She stops, then takes a half-step back (sensible thing) before continuing: "Is it something your brother might be able to help with?"

"No," Loki says curtly. There is nothing wrong. (Only mortals.) "Though we may need his help, before the end. And his new friends." When it comes to the end of existence, rivalries over thrones can be set aside. Temporarily. "I grow weary of this debate, Jane Foster. You _will_ come with me now."

Perhaps his skills of persuasion have not left him entirely, because Jane Foster nods, slowly, not taking her eyes from his. "All right," she says. "But you have to promise we'll talk to Thor."

"I promise," he lies. He extends his hand. "Come."

Her fingers are warm in his. Loki is surprised at how quickly, and how completely, he likes the feel of them there.

* * *

Thirty years, three thousand years, it makes no difference. All believe they operate of their own free will. As though the son of Laufey, of Odin, would know of anything he was not meant to know.

And Jane Foster — she they will call Sigyn, the spark that lit the fire that burnt them all — is exactly where she needs to be.

Further away than human minds can comprehend, Thanos Rex smiles.


End file.
